It’s been a tough 3 or 4 years. If you know me, you likely wouldn’t know, because, despite being a memoirist, I tend to hold things close to the vest—occasionally, sharing life snippets with a comedic bent. Probably, denial.
I shared the fact I had a fucking stroke on Facebook—I was quickly lambasted for doing it, and then never spoken to again (by family).
“Facebook isn’t where you are supposed to share things like this.”
I sort of agree, but, I also don’t.
Anyway, 4 years of crap.
I shared my upset. An acquaintance said, “Lots of people come from screwed up families.”
His loud “SHUT UP – NOT INTERESTED” was noted.
“Lindsay, this is not the place.”
June 21st – 2018
Doctor Musial has been my doctor for 28-years. I enjoy his company. I enjoy his somewhat not doctorly manners. He finds brightness in the challenges of living life. We have a good rapport.
I’m profoundly sad—today is to be my last visit. The good doc is retiring on the 30th. I’ll miss him.
Do you remember the last time when I said you shouldn’t be allowed to retire until all your patients are dead? You do! I joked with friends it would be hilarious if you ended our appointment today saying “Well, that’s it, Lindsay, you’re my last patient.” To which I’d reply, “But you’re retiring on the 30th.” And, you would fire back, “About that, I wouldn’t make Canada Day plans if I were you”
He laughed.
Hey, do you know what my blood type is?
I don’t know—why would I know that?
Are you sure you’re my doctor?
Lindsay, I think you will see the humour in this, some patients don’t. If a patient asks if they must take a pill for the rest of their life? After I reply, you’re lucky there is a pill to take. I say, No, you don’t, you can quit taking it the week before you die.
We both laughed.
The blood type question is the only question I had for you.
You’re healthy, except--
I know, thanks for everything.
TIMES UP
Here come the tears. Fight them, Lindsay. Fight them.
I stuck out my hand. The tears were winning. I grabbed his hand, and shook it, while looking away.
All the best.
All the best to you, Lindsay.
I ran to the door.
I shared the fact I had a fucking stroke on Facebook—I was quickly lambasted for doing it, and then never spoken to again (by family).
“Facebook isn’t where you are supposed to share things like this.”
I sort of agree, but, I also don’t.
Anyway, 4 years of crap.
- My niece, Allison, who is really a cousin, passed away. I may have, shamefully, pushed her away, because of my own neurosis, when she needed me the most.
- I said hello to my mother, Bernice, for the first time, alongside her deathbed – a week later, she died.
- I was diagnosed with Sarcoidosis, a phantom illness that attacks the joints.
- This led to Specialist #1.
- A level ten pain steamrolled through my body. I never missed a day of work.
- I released my memoir: Driving in Reverse - The Life I Almost Missed.
- My youngest sister/aunt, Beverly, passed away.
I shared my upset. An acquaintance said, “Lots of people come from screwed up families.”
His loud “SHUT UP – NOT INTERESTED” was noted.
- On January 5, 2018, I suffered a catastrophic stroke. If I hadn’t gone to the ER when I did, “noted,” would have been the last word of this story. Actually, I'm not sure what word would be the last word because I can't remember the last word I typed on that day.
- I performed a 25-minute set of stand-up comedy while my brain was trying to reset itself.
- My brother-in-law/uncle, Beverly's husband, Gordon, passed away.
- 3 friends passed away (two of them had at one time been best).
“Lindsay, this is not the place.”
- During a plethora of medical appointments, my doctor of 28 years retired.
June 21st – 2018
Doctor Musial has been my doctor for 28-years. I enjoy his company. I enjoy his somewhat not doctorly manners. He finds brightness in the challenges of living life. We have a good rapport.
I’m profoundly sad—today is to be my last visit. The good doc is retiring on the 30th. I’ll miss him.
Do you remember the last time when I said you shouldn’t be allowed to retire until all your patients are dead? You do! I joked with friends it would be hilarious if you ended our appointment today saying “Well, that’s it, Lindsay, you’re my last patient.” To which I’d reply, “But you’re retiring on the 30th.” And, you would fire back, “About that, I wouldn’t make Canada Day plans if I were you”
He laughed.
Hey, do you know what my blood type is?
I don’t know—why would I know that?
Are you sure you’re my doctor?
Lindsay, I think you will see the humour in this, some patients don’t. If a patient asks if they must take a pill for the rest of their life? After I reply, you’re lucky there is a pill to take. I say, No, you don’t, you can quit taking it the week before you die.
We both laughed.
The blood type question is the only question I had for you.
You’re healthy, except--
I know, thanks for everything.
TIMES UP
Here come the tears. Fight them, Lindsay. Fight them.
I stuck out my hand. The tears were winning. I grabbed his hand, and shook it, while looking away.
All the best.
All the best to you, Lindsay.
I ran to the door.
It’s time for a new doctor. Fortunately, I have Specialist #1!
“This is not the place to share.”
Newsflash, absent family: I don’t care.
That sounded angry.
I assure you, it's not: it's sad.
“This is not the place to share.”
Newsflash, absent family: I don’t care.
That sounded angry.
I assure you, it's not: it's sad.
The next few lines are the saddest lines I have ever written.
The only time I hear from family now is if someone in the family is sick or has died. When this happens, the news devastates me. It also reminds me, I don’t belong.
If I were to kick it—nobody in my family would ever know.
If I were to kick it—nobody in my family would ever know.
Back to the Specialist
“Hey Doc, the Chemo pills are shredding my insides.”
“You best keep taking them. Hey, we have a machine downstairs that scans your insides. We are offering the scan for free. You should get it done. I’m sure nothings wrong. I’ll call you if we discover something.”
“Hey Doc, the Chemo pills are shredding my insides.”
“You best keep taking them. Hey, we have a machine downstairs that scans your insides. We are offering the scan for free. You should get it done. I’m sure nothings wrong. I’ll call you if we discover something.”
The Next Day
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“Yeah, Lindsay, the scan is troubling, it shows significant scarring. I need to send you to Specialist #2. Oh yeah, stop taking the chemo pills.”
My new doctor (not this Specialist #1 or soon to be visited Specialist #2) thinks my voice is powerful.
“You should do podcasts. Your voice is outstanding.”
A month later, I met my new Specialist. He ordered a laundry list of tests.
Two months later, I met him again.
“You have a genetic deficiency. It’s called Alpha One. It’s serious. I don’t want you to worry. We need to do a whack of genetic testing and when you come back in January, we will make a plan.”
“Is there anything I should be doing?”
“Eat healthy.”
What’s that Google – use you?
My new doctor (not this Specialist #1 or soon to be visited Specialist #2) thinks my voice is powerful.
“You should do podcasts. Your voice is outstanding.”
A month later, I met my new Specialist. He ordered a laundry list of tests.
Two months later, I met him again.
“You have a genetic deficiency. It’s called Alpha One. It’s serious. I don’t want you to worry. We need to do a whack of genetic testing and when you come back in January, we will make a plan.”
“Is there anything I should be doing?”
“Eat healthy.”
What’s that Google – use you?
|
Alpha One Deficiency: Lungs fail. Liver fails. You fail. Life Expectancy: Now. Next page the same. Next page the same. Next page the same.
My friend Jay, asks me if I’m dying. I lie, and say; I’m sure the next page will be different.
January 9 arrives, my follow-up. I’m too afraid to go—I cancel.
Thursday, January 23 arrives. I go.
“Hey, Lindsay, how are you? We’ll do another scan and then come talk to me.”
“Well, good news, the genetic markers are insignificant. You are fine. (I’m dumping you) You don’t need to see me anymore. You will need a pulmonary function test—your other doctors can deal with that.”
“You don’t need to see me anymore…I’m fine…you know you freaked me out…Google exists.”
I laugh. I cry. I’m exhausted.
"This is not the place.”
Oh, bleep off.
I phone one of my best friends Wayne. It’s his birthday.
“Wayne, I got you the best birthday present ever.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not dying.”
Wayne seemed happy. We chatted for several minutes. I told him what my ailment supposedly was. He Googled.
My friend Jay, asks me if I’m dying. I lie, and say; I’m sure the next page will be different.
January 9 arrives, my follow-up. I’m too afraid to go—I cancel.
Thursday, January 23 arrives. I go.
“Hey, Lindsay, how are you? We’ll do another scan and then come talk to me.”
“Well, good news, the genetic markers are insignificant. You are fine. (I’m dumping you) You don’t need to see me anymore. You will need a pulmonary function test—your other doctors can deal with that.”
“You don’t need to see me anymore…I’m fine…you know you freaked me out…Google exists.”
I laugh. I cry. I’m exhausted.
"This is not the place.”
Oh, bleep off.
I phone one of my best friends Wayne. It’s his birthday.
“Wayne, I got you the best birthday present ever.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not dying.”
Wayne seemed happy. We chatted for several minutes. I told him what my ailment supposedly was. He Googled.
|
“Your illness has a Foundation. I don’t need to read more.”
Relief swallowed me in exhaustion. It’s been a trying four years.
At work.
“Lindsay, how are you feeling?”
“I feel the worst I’ve ever felt. I’m bleeping wiped out.”
“Yeah, I never got much sleep last night, either."
I stopped talking.
February 2020
Back to Specialist #1 for my regular 6-month visit. Wiggle, wiggle, question, question.
“You’re good. (I’m dumping you). You don’t need to see me anymore.”
“You know, the other Specialist, freaked me out. I thought I was dying. He told me I have—”
“Alpha One is serious. You don’t have it. That’s great.”
“Except for Google. You do know patients have Google? Before I bid you, so long, is there anything I should be doing?”
“Eat healthy.”
WRITTEN: February 17, 2019
Relief swallowed me in exhaustion. It’s been a trying four years.
At work.
“Lindsay, how are you feeling?”
“I feel the worst I’ve ever felt. I’m bleeping wiped out.”
“Yeah, I never got much sleep last night, either."
I stopped talking.
February 2020
Back to Specialist #1 for my regular 6-month visit. Wiggle, wiggle, question, question.
“You’re good. (I’m dumping you). You don’t need to see me anymore.”
“You know, the other Specialist, freaked me out. I thought I was dying. He told me I have—”
“Alpha One is serious. You don’t have it. That’s great.”
“Except for Google. You do know patients have Google? Before I bid you, so long, is there anything I should be doing?”
“Eat healthy.”
WRITTEN: February 17, 2019
